


Lazy Days Of Feedom

by Gildedmuse



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Gift Fic, M/M, One Shot, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18729145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: Roger and Mark are just celebrating their friendship.





	Lazy Days Of Feedom

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted to LJ as a gift for a friend in 2006]

**Lazy Days Of Freedom**

 

"To freedom!"

 

Mark's laugh is more like a high, drunken giggle and if Roger didn't laugh along with him, sounding just as out of it and girly, he would have teased him about it. As it is, Roger just shakes his head and snickers at Mark's flushed face and out of it giggling, putting the joint back between his lips. He smiles up at Mark, all teeth and glowing eyes, and Mark thinks that right then he looks like a real rock star.

 

"I don't think you can toast with a joint," Mark says, a little laughter still escaping out of his voice. He feels light, happy, and yeah, really free. He leans over Roger, running a hand through his hair. The roots are showing through, softer than the bleached out tips as they slide through Mark's fingers. The gel has been all used up, which doesn't bother Mark. He likes Roger's hair like this when he can really brush it around, stroking Roger until the other boy mews contently and tips up into the touch.

 

With his eyes closed and that lazy smile still pulling at his lips, Roger says, "Sure you can." He leans back into Mark's hand, taking a drag and letting out a lungful of smoke as he laughs. "I think I just did." He takes the pot and passes it to Mark, passing it back and forth until there will be nothing left but smiles and smoke clinging to their clothes.

 

Mark tilts his head back and lets the smoke curl up past his lips. He pauses for a second, enjoying the feeling of just being there and alive and everything. He doesn't even get a few seconds to just think and wonder before Roger moans. "Harder," he tells Mark, head nudging the fingers still working through his hair. With a sigh Mark looks back down at his friend, sticking out his tongue even as he complies to Roger's request.

 

The musician closes his eyes and snuggles back against the couch with a happy little sound in the back of his throat. He looks less like a dangerous, beautiful rock star now and more like a kitten rubbing up against its master for attention. Mark laughs and thinks this describes Roger pretty accurately. "Thank you, Markie."

 

The next sound he makes is a little more like a yelp when Mark tugs at one of the messy tuffs of Roger's hair. "Don't call me that." Roger opens his eyes to glare up at the kid, growling a bit as he reaches up to massage his head where the hair had been pulled, like Mark isn't already gently petting him again.

 

"Bastard," he says, but his mouth can't seem to help being pulled up into a smile and his eyes are still burning bright with amusement and fun. Somewhere in that teasing insult the words I love you are well hidden. Mark is used to them, and hears it without even thinking.

 

Mark laughs a bit, answering, "Asshole." His way of promising Roger he's loved back.

 

Roger stretched out, his tongue wagging at Mark to combat the playful insult. When he slouches back into place, he's taking up even more of the couch. It pins Mark between him and the back of the sofa, but he doesn't complain. Just smiles and hands back the quickly shortening joint. Roger shakes his head, backing away slightly when Mark tries to slip it between his lips.

 

"You have it," he says, pushing Mark's hand away. "I'm good. Besides, it's you we're celebrating."

 

Being very nearly disowned by one's father doesn't seem like a good reason for a party of any kind. Maybe if Mark would just call his mom back, talked and reasoned with her a little he'd still be getting that monthly allowance right now. But Roger had chosen that moment to come home with an easy smile like a secret and Mark had said, "Yeah, let's celebrate."

 

Looking down at Roger with his eyes closed and the almost childish look of contentment, Mark knows he'd say yes again. That he's always say yes. Just because it is Roger, and there really is no other answer. He giggles again, not even sure why, and nudges Roger in the shoulder. "Don't fall asleep on me."

 

Roger doesn't open his eyes, but his grin gets wider. "How could I fall asleep on a day like this?"

 

Mark raises his eyebrow, something that would drive Roger insane if he were watching. The first time they'd gotten high, Mark had spent two hours trying to teach him how, but Roger had never gotten it. Now he just pouts every time Mark does it, which makes it worth doing all the more. "On a day like this? You mean the same day you came in complaining about the heat and said all you wanted to do was pass out and wake up when winter came?"

 

"That was before," Roger points out, opening his eyes to stare up at Mark with that look that dares the boy to try and argue with him. Self satisfied and beautiful. Back to the rock star. "I wouldn't fall asleep for your party."

 

Mark tosses what's left of the joint onto the floor. He lays his head down on the armrest, almost pressed cheek to cheek with Roger and when he lets out that final breath he's so close that the musician nips at the smoke in the air. "You and me getting high on the couch is hardly a party," he points out, but doesn't even think of moving.

 

Roger rolls his eyes and says, "Give me a break. It was impromptu."

 

Mark's laugh shakes through him and Roger, but even then when the realization of how close they were should have been sinking in, the boys stay curled up together. If the heat couldn't make them move, something like supposed sexualities didn't stand a chance. "Big word for you, Roger."

 

"Fucker," Roger growls, smiling while he hits Mark in the shoulder.

 

Still laughing, Mark mutters, "Jerk," blushing a bit when Roger gives him a look as if Mark should know better than to insult him with something so weak. "Fine, fine. Manwhore."

 

This just gets him a smirk. "You bet your scrawny little ass I am." To make some point he reaches over Mark, pinching his behind just hard enough to make Mark squeak and jump.

 

Blushing as Roger laughs hard enough that the rumbles shake them and the couch, Mark tries his best to glare at his best friend. He takes a shot at Roger's shoulder and the other boy starts laughing harder. "Asshole," Mark mutters, pouting a bit as he snuggles back down against Roger.

 

After he's stopped laughing enough to speak, Roger says, "Bitch."

 

It's the nice easy pattern of friendship. They were used to the playful name-calling and oddly familiar contact that no one, not even Maureen, bothered to comment on anymore. It's nice to be back like this after suffering through April's death and watching Roger close himself off to contact of any kind. Mark would have sworn Mimi's death would have caused Roger to collapse, but whatever that bright eyed young girl had told him before she died, Roger never went back to that reclusive state. He wrote songs, he went to Life Support meetings, and he stopped shying away from people's touch. After that lapse, Mark and Roger are back to being themselves. It never occurred to them that the playful touches and borderline flirting were anything other than their natural friendship.

 

Well, maybe once about four years ago when Roger found himself jerking off in the shower every morning to the thoughts of a certain blond on his knees. Then there had been some pause in the light touches, but only until Roger found April and figured out that whole thing had just been a short-lived stage of loneliness.

 

There had been that one time, too, just after Benny moved in where he'd asked Mark some thing that made the filmmaker wonder why Roger took up more of his reel time than his girlfriend. That had made him back off for a while. But in the end, Mark figures that it's all aesthetic. Of course he films Roger. The boy is hot and wild and looks great on camera. He's passionate and free and Mark's best friend. There didn't have to be anything else to it.

 

So in the end they wind up sprawled on the couch again after years of acting so broken with Mark curled around a shirtless Roger whose hand is still resting on the small of his back and there is nothing wrong or strange about it. Just two boys being comfortable with each other. What's so odd about that?

 

"We're celebrating," Roger says, handing running over Mark's skin. His shirt ends up getting pushed aside and Roger's rough, calloused over fingers start stroking at the soft skin of Mark's back without anyone saying a word. "your new found freedom and escape from the world of parental dependence."

 

"You sound like Collins," Mark says, smiling against Roger's neck. The way he nuzzles against the skin as he's being pet makes Roger think of a lost puppy, just happy to be in someone's loving and caring hands. Roger wonders if he could make Mark moan, but it's a quick thought that he never really grabs onto, and it slips by before it has any time to sink in. "That parental dependence, that was paying for the food in the fridge."

 

Roger snorts, shaking his head just enough to get his point across without upsetting the boy nearly lying on top of him. "Who needs food? We still have a cartoon or two of cigarettes and half a bottle of Stoli."

 

Mark laughs, knowing Roger was going to say something like that and finding it somehow more amusing than usual how well they seem to know each other. For a second, he wonders what it be like if Maureen had known him so well, but it's those kinds of thoughts that lead to trouble so he dismisses it without a second read over. "We have fourth of a bottle left," Mark corrects. "Or at least had two hours ago, before you got this little party thing in mind. We also had some marijuana, but that is long gone, too. Collins's gonna be pissed, you think?"

 

"No," Roger answers, not even thinking about it before he answers. "Collins always gets more. He's like... He's like Collins, the bearer of Stoli."

 

This is probably one of those things that are only funny when high and drunk on vodka and another person's warmth, but Mark laughs so hard he ends up hiccupping. He covers his mouth and blushes a little as another one pops up, but it's too late. Roger is already chuckling at him, flicking Mark on the nose. "You're such a geek," he comments as Mark tips his head back and counts to ten without breathing to get the hiccups away. He thinks about protesting, but he feels warm and safe right now and isn't bothered by Roger's playful name calling or the way his fingers glide over Mark's glasses, leaving smudges over the lenses before running across Mark's cheeks. Mark's far too relaxed to say anything about it.

 

The truth is, Mark should really be more worried about the fact that his dad saw the film, called Mark a faggot, and promised to never let him set foot back in his house again, much less send him money. Roger makes it sound so fun to be so abandoned, though, or maybe being curled up next to Roger on the couch close enough that he's not sure which body heat is his is just messing with Mark's head. Either way, he knows he can never go back to home and, for the moment, doesn't even want to. It's too stifling. Too restricted. Too far from Roger.

 

Oh, and Collins and Joanne and Maureen, too, of course.

 

"Now you're free," Roger says, ignoring Mark's little bout of reason. "You can do whatever you want."

 

"Be whoever I want," Mark adds. Not that his parents have ever stopped him from acting out before, but Roger seems so determined to spin this positively that Mark is just saying things to agree.

 

"Do whoever you want," Roger says, wiggling his eyebrows and getting another laugh from Mark.

 

The smaller boy playfully swats at Roger's shoulder. "Pervert," he chides, which would have sounded better if he weren't still giggling.

 

"Baby," Roger says back, his grin insanely toothy and tempting. Mark just laughs harder, groaning slightly when he has the breath and burying his head in Roger's shoulder.

 

Once both boys have stopped laughing they just sit there for a while, taking in the nice silence and contact between them. Never awkward. Just comfortable and friendly. After a while, Mark sighs. "I should do something just to piss them off."

 

"How about a nipple piercing?" Roger suggest, chuckling a bit at the amusing mental picture that follows.

 

"Or a tattoo," Mark says, still talking mostly to Roger's shoulder.

 

"Or a tattoo of a nipple piercing." Roger laughs loud and full this time as he feels Mark make a face against his neck. He mutters something about Roger's sense of humor, pulling a bit away from the other boy so that they're no longer as squashed together.

 

"What about this?" Mark asks, tugging at Roger's arm. With a sigh, the musician lets his friend pull his arm out from between them so he can study the tattoos. "I kinda like this one."

 

Mark puts a finger in the center of the design and slowly begins to trace outward, trying to untangle the ink knot on Roger's arm. Roger snuggles back up against the couch as Mark lies there and concentrates on tracing out the pattern. After a few seconds of feeling the finger make loops on his arm, Roger speaks up. "You don't want that one," he says. "It took forever."

 

"So?" Mark asks, never looking up for his finger and the tattoo. "I still like it. What's it of?"

 

Roger gives the sort of half hearted shrug. Between the pot and Mark's comforting, feather light touch he feels ready to drift off any second now. "Old band," he explains. "Not sure what I was thinking. We split up right before I met you."

 

Mark nods a bit, still going round and round the design. "I remember. You were complaining about them."

 

"They were all fags," Roger says, followed quickly by, "Ow!" when Mark pinches his arm. "Sorry, sorry." Pouting, Roger reaches over to rub at the red spot Mark had left on his arm only to get his hand swatted away so that Mark can go back to tracing his tattoo with his finger. "They were all assholes. Anyway, it wouldn't make sense for you to get a tattoo of my old band's sign."

 

"I wouldn't mind," Mark says. His touch starts to get lighter and, even if neither boy would say it, a little more sensual. At least enough to send a shiver through Roger. "It be like a brand."

 

"Like, My Best Friend." Roger laughs, not even sure if what he said had been a joke, but breaking the tension. "Back Off."

 

"Yeah," Mark answers, giggling along with him for the same reason. "Like that." They smile at each other, pretty sure that they're okay and not breaking and rules. Mark's hand slips a little further down Roger's arm and starts going over a new tattoo.

 

Roger waits patiently for Mark to run his finger around Roger's arm before he asks, "What about this one."

 

"Don't get one of those," Roger says, propping his head up a bit so he can look at Mark. Mark doesn't even seem to notice, so fascinated by the ink around Roger's skin. "Everyone has one of those."

 

"Even you," Mark points out, chuckling a little and finally looking up to flash that horrible, lopsided grin Roger has been waiting all evening to see.

 

"I was young," Roger says. "I was stupid and drunk."

 

"She took advantage of you," Mark says, mimicking Roger's strangely serious voice and nodding gravely. This lapse in his smile lasts all of three seconds before he giggling again. "What about the other one?"

 

Roger bites over his lip, letting the question sit for a while. On a summer's day like this, everything feels slow and lazy and Roger feels no need to rush into Mark's little game, whatever it might be. "The skull?"

 

The way Mark giggles reminds Roger of a teenager drunk for the very first time. He expects Mark to reach around him to his other arm and feel out the colored ink. He doesn't expect Mark to grab hold of the couch, tugging himself up to straddle Roger's lap so that he can see and trace the tattoo. Maybe he should, but with Mark perched on top of him and drawing the shape on Roger's arm again and again, gently into his skin, he doesn't even think of pushing him away.

 

Instead he asks, "What do you think?"

 

With a deep frown of concentration, Mark leans over to study the tattoo, close enough that his breath is beating down on Roger's skin. It sends waves of heat through Roger who already feels so warm, but he never pulls away or tells Mark to cut if out. "'Snice," Mark says. The pads of his fingers are gently and soothing. "Why'dja get it?"

 

"You were here when I got it," Roger mutters, closing his eyes and relaxing back into the couch, just concentrating on Mark's weight and touch.

 

"I know," Mark says, hot breath still beating against Roger and fingers sliding gently around his skin. "But why?"

 

"April thought it was nice," Roger answers, shrugging as if branding yourself for another person is no big deal. He stifles a yawn, trying to force his eyes to remain open. Mark is still running his fingers down the back of Roger's arm and it's something comforting, something he could fall asleep to.

 

Minutes later, right as Roger starts to really drift off, Mark asks, "Do you have more?"

 

It should feel strange, but it never does. "Sure. Here." Hooking his fingers through the waistband of his jeans, Roger shimmies the pants just low enough that Mark can see the three stars leading down from his hips. Without hesitation, Mark's hand starts dragging across Roger's arm, his side, his stomach, until his hand is covering the three small tattoos.

 

When Roger aches back, pushing up against Mark's touch with a slow, breathy moan, they both know they should stop. If they stopped now they could blame it on the pot, on the fact that Mark's hand is lying against Roger's hip and he is half asleep anyway so of course he'd react like that. They could leave this whole situation without any awkward mornings or bad questions they don't want to wind up asking themselves anyway. Mark's fingers are already dancing around the points of the stars, teasing with not enough contact, and even if both boys know better it doesn't feel like they should stop. So they don't. "You got these for April?"

 

Both boys watch nearly hypnotized as Mark's finger dips under Roger's jeans to brush across that last half of the third star. Roger swallows hard, flushed and trying to find his voice again. His chest is shaking, breath coming out in ragged gasps as Mark starts back up, running his fingers along the black stars again and again and again. "Just..." Roger pauses, closes his eyes and moans. "Just seemed like a good idea at the time."

 

It's the second moan, loud and throaty, that spurs Mark on. He knocks away Roger's hands, curling his fingers into the boy's jeans and starts crawling down the couch. Still trembling, biting at his lip to keep from moaning again, Roger pushes himself up enough to watch Mark dragging the jeans down Roger's legs, eyes scanning over every new inch of skin until the pants are pulled off and tossed aside.

 

Roger's breath catches in his throat at the wicked smile on Mark's face. The sort of look he never expected to see from his best friend, mischievous and reckless and perfect. "Any more?"

 

"Yeah," Roger's voice sounds like the tinted glass of a bottle, dark and heavy in his throat. It sounds like his stage voice, and when he uses it right then Mark moans. "I've got-"

 

Then Roger aches off the couch with a groan, cut off by Mark's hand running up between his legs. "Wait," he says, fingers curling around Roger, starting with those same familiar strokes that had been ghosting over Roger's skin earlier. Roger mews and pushes and stops listening to anything but his own heart beating. "Let me find them."

 

Unable and not wanting to protest, Roger nods before grabbing a fistful of Mark's shirt and tugging him forward. That look of wicked confidence is gone pretty quickly once Mark is lying across Roger's chest, replacing with curiousness and a little surprise. Roger doesn't give him time to think about what's going on.

 

It starts as awkward as any kiss. Tentative and searching at first, waiting for someone to break. A nervous hand slips behind Mark's neck, brining him closer. Small whimpers fill the air and mouths slip open, inviting and curious. Roger deepens the kiss and Mark can't hold back a whimper, pressing as close as he can get until the kiss just seems to explode. Their lips smash together, tongue becoming more aggressive and sure as they pull the other closer into the kiss. Hard and rough enough to bruise, but neither wants to pull away.

 

The only thing that feels strange now is how normal this seems to them. Not like they're crossing some line, but like there's never been a line in the first place.

 

Kissing Mark, Roger doesn't think it's weird to have his best friend on top of him. Only wonders if it's normal to want someone you care for so much. He's used to falling in love at first sight. April in a crowd. Mimi with her candle. This isn't the same sort of sudden, passionate feeling he's had. This is safe, normal. Different but right.

 

Mark starts to back off and Roger fights against the weight settled on his chest to keep licking and nipping at Mark's lip. They finally break apart, still close enough that their shallow breaths mingle between them. Mark's pale skin is flushed a deep red, Roger's usually bright eyes dark and hungry.

 

This is the point where the boys can blame the alcohol and pot for their little break down. Roger's hand brushes down the side of Mark's face, and he's not pushing him away. He's saying I won't ever abandon you again and Mark's eyes answer back I'm not afraid anymore.

 

Then they kiss again. Hard and focused on nothing but each other. Lips moving together, hands groping, skin sliding against skin. This kiss is not about searching, this kiss is about getting out four years of pent up something the boys can't name.

 

Once this second kiss is broken, Roger starts attacking any inch of Mark he can reach. His lips ghost along the boy's jaw, nipping at a patch of skin that makes Mark lose his voice. Nails dig into Roger's back as Mark tries to hold himself steady, arching against Roger as his lips work their way down Mark's neck. "Roger," he moans, close to whimpering when Roger chooses that moment to ghost his hands over Mark's hips and any sound get stuck in his throat, desperate and needy. "Roger... Bed. Please."

 

Moaning, Roger plants one kiss on top of Mark's shoulder before he starts to pull back. "Good idea," he says, trying to hold that bright, easy going smile of his that he can feel faltering under something else. Something like lust, but that sounds weird in the context of them and so it all goes unnamed. He wraps an arm around Mark and starts tugging him off the couch and towards his bedroom.

 

The second they're up, though, Mark is running his hands back over Roger's skin like he's tracing a tattoo. He map outs the lines of the rock star's stomach, chest, around his collarbone and his throat. His finger slid over Roger as if he's memorizing every dip and angle for later use. They ghost over Roger, leaving behind heat and then the warm and now too cool air leaves Roger shivering. He's used to quick fucks, high or fiery or make up sex when the fights get too much to handle. Not to gentle attention like Mark is giving him and already he can feel his body becoming far too addicted to it. Trembling with the lust pooling up in his stomach, Roger tears Mark's shirt over his head, fumbling with the zipper of his pants next. The bed suddenly seems too far away, and Mark is shoved up against a wall so Roger can return the attention, nipping and sucking along his neck as he yanks the corduroys down Mark's small hips.

 

Roger can feel the whimpers with his lips traveling across Mark's neck. They sound desperate, like the rock of their hips up against each other, rubbing together like teenagers. "Please," Mark says, word barely audible above his panting. Roger never stops his mouth from moving over Mark's skin, down his collarbone to flick across a nipple, teeth scrapping along after it. Mark gasps, a needy sound dying in the back of his throat as he rocks harder up into Roger. One of the exploring hands digging into Roger's shoulder, the other twisting into bleached out hair. "Roger, please just fuck me."

 

Roger pauses and looks up. He never expected something like that to come out of his Mark, the boy who always seemed more obsessed with his camera than life. Now Mark's eyes are closed tight, his lips swollen and trembling as he pushes up against Roger's hips. How had Roger missed this? How Mark's detachment could turn into need, and the last of their excuses (high, drunk, not thinking) are gone because Roger is flipping them over, pinning Mark to his bed and attacking his lips with a fierce, possessive kiss. The kind that leaves them so breathless they can't even moan into it, and Mark is more than willing to turn submissive under Roger's hungry mouth.

 

When Roger pulls back, Mark fights to keep their mouths pressed together. He moans at the lose of contact, licking at his quickly bruising lips and gasping for more than a shallow breath. Roger's eyes are dark, wanting, demanding, watching Mark's tongue. Two fingers, hard from guitar calluses, run along Mark's lips. He eagerly opens his mouth to them, closing his eyes as they thrust between his lips. Watching Mark play with them, hollowing his cheeks and closing his eyes as if imagining they were Roger's cock, moaning around the fingers as he pulls them into his mouth. Roger moans, pressing his heavy erection against Mark's legs. Mark shouldn't look so innocent and wanton at the same time. Roger shouldn't want him this much or be this hard from just this. This shouldn't be happening, but logic disappeared long ago and no one is trying to get it back.

 

The whine Mark makes as the fingers are slowly torn away, slowly opening his eyes as he follows Roger's hand licking and sucking and wanting to taste Roger even as his hand fell away from Mark's mouth. All those years of adoration and need and wanting but never touching leave Mark's chest aching and he hadn't even known how much he'd wanted Roger until he had him pressed against a wall. Mark's sure he has no control over his mouth, because he can't seem to stop the words from spilling out. "Roger." A whimper, a desperate push of his hips as a hand ghosted along the length of his cock and - Oh, God, he needs more. "Roger, please, just, need," Mark groaned, squirming and pushing and groaning when the fingers leave him to slip further between his legs.

 

With a finger pressed to Mark's entrance, Roger can't seem to say a thing. Just pant against Mark's slick skin, teasing before he pushes inside and Mark screams, nothing coherent because his heart is racing and he can't think of anything expect Roger, Roger, more, Roger. It hurts when the second finger slips into him but he doesn't say anything expect to whimper for more. He realizes he must look like a slut, bucking his hips up to meet the thrust of Roger's hand, but Roger is moaning against his shoulder and rocking his own erection against Mark's leg and this is the sort of closeness both boys have always wanted-needed but could never get.

 

Mark needs Roger to stay with him so he's not alone. Roger needs Mark to ground him so he's safe. From the way Roger is twisting and curling his fingers inside Mark just for those screams and breathless words, both boys need this harder and faster and now.

 

Mark whimpers, opening his legs and bending his knees to push himself up against Roger's hand as he pulls his fingers away, hating the loss of contact. Roger reaches down to fish around the pile of clothes around them before grabbing Mark's shoulders, pushing him hard back against the wall. Roger plants a light kiss over the boy's bruising lips, fumbling with the condom he's trying to pull on. What the kiss means is, are you sure?

 

Mark hooks a leg around Roger's hip and wraps his arms around Roger's broad shoulders to keep steady, to hold Roger closer. He opens his eyes, dark blue and hungry and trusting and Roger moans, deepening the kisses. What Mark's says is, I always have.

 

"Roger..." Mark trembles under him, pushing against the cock pressed to him. He was so close to coming like this, because it was Roger who was pushing against him, weight pinning Mark to the wall and lifting hips up as he slowly, too slowly and gently thrust into him. "Roger, please." His voice broke into a whimper as he trembles as Roger fills him, acting like Mark is made of glass when was he really wants is this and Roger and everything.

 

Jaw clenched to hold himself back, Roger's voice is a low, dark purr torn from the back of his throat. His old stage voice that Mark use to dream about and wake up covered in sweat and guilt he couldn't explain away. "Am I-"

 

"No," Mark answers, squirming to push himself up against Roger. "No, Roger, please. I need you."

 

"Fuck," Roger growls, and the gentle thrusting is lost as Roger slams back into Mark, both boys shaking and sweating as Roger sets a hard, rough pace. Mark's nails scrape along the rock stars back as he tries to meet the thrusts. He's trembling and whimpering and can't stop his hips from rolling back against Roger no matter how much it hurts. With an arm around Mark's waist, he lips the boy's hips slightly and hits right there with every hard thrust until Mark is screaming and shaking. Twisting one hand into Roger's hair, he forced the boy closer. "Harder," he urges, rocking his hips to meet Roger's with a desperate cry. Roger bites down on the skin Mark offers, sucking and nipping and marking. His body aches with a need and a lust so close to the edge, and he's coming hard, slamming Mark back into the wall.

 

"Fuck, R-Roger!" Mark screams, riding out his orgasm as Roger slumps against him, slowly slipping out of Mark as he collapses against the wall. The only sound in the loft is the loud, ragged breathing and racing hearts of both boys, Mark's small moan as Roger pulls out of him and falls to the floor.

 

Mark runs his hand through Roger's messy hair, gently stroking as Roger's forehead falls against his hip. Even now when everything should be awkward he feels safe. Maybe it's just the afterglow of the orgasm, but Mark doesn't feel like turning this into something weird. When Roger finally looks up to meet his eyes, he sees the familiar trust and doesn't question it. Instead of running away, he places a kiss to Mark's waist, nuzzling against the hand in his hair.

 

"We never made it to bed," he points out, the realization only sinking in when the hard concrete of the floor started digging into his knees. What he says, in his own way, is that he doesn't regret this.

 

Mark smiles, patting Roger on top of the head, chuckling at the slight pout Roger gives him in return for being treated like a pet. "We'll get there," Mark promises, and that part is pretty easy to translate.


End file.
